


close your eyes (and think of hydra)

by jdphoenix



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Prostitution, Sexual Content, The Framework Universe (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 12:16:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12630897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: Three nights. That’s gotta be a record. She really must’ve pissed someone off.





	close your eyes (and think of hydra)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "you didn't say the magic word."
> 
>  **Warning:** There's definitely some dubious consent going on in here just due to the nature of the relationship. I won't say any more than that because spoilers but if you're concerned take a look at the tags and you should be able to get an idea of just why that's the case.
> 
> It doesn't necessarily matter for the plot but this is real. This isn't a "Jemma is plugged into the Framework and this is what it's like for her" story. This is actual reality. Just ... the Framework version. So don't worry/hope that Daisy's gonna show up and mess with the status quo.

Brock’s got rules. Simple ones. Lights out. Front-to-back. No talking. No touching.

It’s not what he wants, far from it really, but he figures it’s easier on everyone involved. Not even the Madame’s girls are gonna be able to fake it if they’ve gotta look at a guy like him, so he makes it simple.

He’s glad he does the third night in a row he hears her throaty gasps. Three nights. That’s gotta be a record. She really must’ve pissed someone off.

He tries to make it good—palms her breast with his good hand, gets her going so maybe she can forget just who she’s been given to for the night—and in the end he leaves before she’s even fallen asleep.

She makes another noise then, questioning, and he can hear her sitting up. Probably scared he’s gonna go complaining about her poor performance.

“It’s fine,” he says. “Keep the bed warm. I just need a drink.”

He won’t complain. He’ll even head down to the bar on eighth and flex his scarred hand while he drinks himself into oblivion, just to show anyone watching knows it wasn’t her at all.

The thing is, the girls are Brock’s only option anymore. That op in DC, rebels trying to destabilize the world government, it left him broken. In a lot of ways but the important one is physically. He can still do his damn job, the drugs they pumped him full of (drugs that left him screaming and babbling and demanding a gun so he could finish it like a man) saw to that, but he looks like something a cat threw up. No woman in her right mind wants to touch him. (Hell, what’s he thinking? Even the crazies have enough sense to keep their distance.)

But Hydra, in their infinite wisdom, has planned for things like this. There’s a whole department full of women—or men if you’re into that kind of thing—who’ll take care of agents who either can’t or are just too lazy to pick up someone on the outside. He never indulged before, the whole thing was a little too seedy even for him, but now? Every time he passes by a mirror it’s a reminder his pride isn’t a factor anymore.

He’s still got mercy though, so he takes the next out of town op on offer. Hopefully by the time he gets back, the poor girl who got stuck with him will be off the Madame’s shit list and he’ll be able to traumatize an entirely new woman for the night.

 

.....

 

He doesn’t use the Madame’s service for two weeks. The first three days are because he’s taking down a rebel camp outside Java. The other eleven are because he catches the wrong end of an explosion.

“-no cosmetic damage,” the idiot doc they send him says. Brock would give him some cosmetic damage if he could get off his back. After the look he throws the doc’s way, it’s just the pretty little English bird looking after him.

She’s a chemist, not a medic, but there were some chemical weapons in that bunker and Hydra’s not taking any chances. She doesn’t ever quite look at him, not that he blames her, but whenever she catches an unexpected glimpse, he sees a little bit of pity in those doe eyes of hers. He thinks about telling her it doesn’t hurt anymore, but that’d probably scare her off and they’d be stuck with Dr. Cosmetic Damage again.

Which might not be so bad, seeing as she makes all the other guys from his team go wild.

“Shut up,” he says after the fifth time wolf howls follow her out the door.

“Come on, boss man,” Prescott whines. “There’s no harm in lookin’. And anyway I’m thinkin’ of requesting her once we’re off bedrest.”

Montoya lobs an empty pudding cup at Prescott’s head. “You can’t request her, you idiot. Didn’t you see her badge? No green stripe.”

Prescott pushes himself up into a sitting position even though the chemist is long gone. “Seriously? How’s the Madame letting a sweet ass like that get out of fuck duty?”

“ _Shut. Up_ ,” Brock says again. It’s on the tip of his tongue to remind him it’s not _fuck duty_ , it’s a damn job and it’s the only thing keeping most of those girls from worse thanks to guys like Prescott running around this place. But that little speech wouldn’t carry half as much weight as a fist to Prescott’s throat, so Brock shuts his eyes, lets ‘em think he’s just tired of their yapping.

He’s relieved she doesn’t have a stripe. That means she’s valuable enough she’s safe—as safe as anyone can be in Hydra—and that means she won’t have to spend her nights getting fucked by men so ugly they can’t get a girl the old fashioned way.

“But did you see how low her collar was?” Prescott whispers after a few minutes. “What’s she wearing that sweater for if she’s not advertising?”

Next time an op goes south, he promises himself, he’s gonna be sure to off the rest of his team. That way he doesn’t have to listen to their shit while he’s trapped in a bed.

 

.....

 

It’s her again. When he gets back, it’s her waiting on that bed in the dark. He knows the feel of her hips in his hands and the smell of her shampoo and sweat mingling when she presses into him. He always pushes her back down—it’s not just his hand, nearly every inch of his skin was left puckered and scarred and he doesn’t want the feel of it ruining what little enjoyment she can get out of this—smooths his good palm over her spine. His fingers spread out over her back, feeling her ribs, her quivering muscles, her soft skin.

She’s perfect. This girl they send to him night after night is beautiful—she’s gotta be to belong to the Madame, but he feels it too every time he touches her. If they were living in a different world, she’d never let a man like him near her, probably never even lay eyes on one.

In a different world, maybe he won’t _be_ a man like him. Maybe he’d be whole and healthy. He still probably couldn’t have someone like her—he doesn’t know her name or what she looks like but in his head his girl’s a goddess, too good for Hydra by half—but he could at least touch and be touched. He wouldn’t be a freak.

But this isn’t a different world. This is the only one they’ve got and in it she gasps and strains and whimpers while he takes what he can from her.

He never does leave again. Once was understandable but if he starts making a habit of it when he never did before, they’ll really start to wonder if she’s giving as good as she’s supposed to. So he stays.

While she’s cleaning up, he always makes a point of curling to the side of the bed, far enough she’s got plenty of room to herself.

 

.....

 

“Be careful,” the chemist says. It’s one last check-up before he’s cleared for duty. Her eyes slide away from him while she says it—it’s one thing to look at his arm while she draws blood or his chest while she listens to his lungs, but she still can’t quite look at _him_.

“Not really part of the job, doc.”

Her eyes flash in defiance. “You’re a high-value asset, Agent Rumlow. It’s your _job_ to take care of yourself.”

“It’s my job to take care of Hydra’s interests first.” He tips his chin, lets her see those ugly scars on his neck. “After that, I’m cannon fodder.”

And she really must be sheltered, a brain as valuable as her, because she can’t seem to find anything to say to that.

 

.....

 

“What are you doing?” he asks into the darkness.

He was dead asleep, but he knows where he is. The room, one of the many identical rooms Hydra sets aside for transactions like theirs, with her next to him. She’s supposed to be sleeping but she’s propped up on her side, one hand lifted over him. He can feel it there, inches from his face, just like he can feel her heart hammering and the way her lungs quaver around trapped air.

The hand moves. Lower. He catches her wrist before she can reach what she’s aiming for. It’s as soft as the rest of her. Soft and small. He could break it, no trouble at all.

And that, he thinks, is why he could never have her in any version of reality that wasn’t as fucked up as this one. Who the hell thinks about weak points on their lover like they’re an opponent?

“What are you doing?” he asks again. “You can talk. Tell me.”

Her swallow is loud in the stillness, but her voice still comes out raspy. “My job.”

He throws her wrist aside, forcing her to her back. “You did your job. Go to sleep.”

“But-”

“Sleep. Now. And no more talking.”

She does sleep, eventually, but he doesn’t. All night long he can feel her just inches away, so close her breath falls soft and warm between his shoulder blades.

 

.....

 

“About the girl-” Brock hears himself say.

The Madame freezes, halfway through turning away after dismissing him. Her lips are a scimitar and her eyes flash with amusement while he winces. What the hell’s he thinking? No one in the history of Hydra has ever willingly prolonged a debrief with the Madame.

“Is she not to your satisfaction?” she asks. There’s a threat beneath those words. Not to him though.

“No. No, I just-”

He’s not deaf, not even in his left ear, so he hears the door, but he’s too wrapped up in his own screw up to stop himself now.

“The same one? Every night? I didn’t think … that was how it worked.”

The Madame shrugs carelessly. “If you’d like more variety, that can certainly be arranged.” She looks over Brock’s head. “Jemma,” she says warmly. “Come in.”

“I’m sorry.” The rough voice brings Brock’s head around. It’s the chemist. Stiff and rigid while she walks past him, her hand shaking as she delivers a stack of files to the Madame. “I didn’t know you were in a meeting.”

“It’s quite all right, dear. I’ll be done here momentarily.” She waves a hand to an inauspicious door, only to scowl when the chemist turns her back. “Jemma,” she says sternly. “You didn’t say the magic words.”

What little color was in the chemist’s cheeks drains away, leaving her looking frail as paper when she clasps her hands in front of her and bows her head respectfully. “I’m happy to comply, Madame. Hail Hydra.”

Brock knows he looks as shocked as he feels, but he can’t seem to wipe the look off his face while the girl disappears through the door. “I thought-” The words are already half out by the time he thinks better of them and the Madame’s staring so he barrels on. “I thought she wasn’t on offer.”

That phrase she said, it’s old school Hydra, from back in the brainwash-and-release days when they were living under SHIELD. Nowadays the Madame’s girls use it. Not because they’re brainwashed—Brock doesn’t think—but because it reminds them of their place here.

“She isn’t. For now. I’m afraid Jemma’s gone and fallen in love with her current asset and, as he’s seemed happy to keep her, I’ve allowed her her little fantasies.” She looks pityingly to the inspection room door. “It will be a hard lesson for her when he moves on, but a necessary one. Better she learn how the world works sooner, isn’t that right, Brock?”

Poor little bird, he thinks. Soon whatever prick she’s sleeping with now will get tired of her and she’ll be back in the pool, available for guys like Prescott to have their fun with.

There’s a cruel glint in the Madame’s eye and he can guess what she’s thinking. But he doesn’t keep the lights off for the girls’ sake, he does it for him too. He’s not sure he could stand knowing in the light of day just who he repulsed the night before. So before she can offer him a spot on the chemist’s waiting list, he says, “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry to keep you. And thanks. The girl you’ve been sending is great; that’s all I meant to say.”

Some of the eagerness in her eyes dims. He probably hasn’t won any favors by robbing her of her twisted little game, but he’s protected two women from her wrath, that’s worth whatever she’ll throw at him later.

She waves him off, done with him now he’s no fun. He leaves before he can put anyone else in danger.

 

.....

 

That night, he wakes up. No reason, just opens his eyes in the dark and knows she’s awake next to him. She still doesn’t keep her distance in bed, he can feel her warmth all along his side even with the inches between them.

“I talked to the Madame about you today,” he says, breaking his own rule. “I told her I liked you, wanted to keep you.” Now that he’s next to her, can still feel her in his skin, it doesn’t sound as chivalrous as it did in the Madame’s office. “If you’d rather go back into the pool, I can always change my mind but-”

His girl is fast. In a heartbeat her weight is on his shoulder, her lips on his mouth. He hasn’t kissed a woman in more than a year and she’s good, real good—has to be though, work she does—so for a few seconds he’s lost in it. He’s like a man in a desert who just falls into the first puddle of water he sees, doesn’t even drink it in through his mouth because that’s not enough.

But eventually his hands land on her and when his ruined one slides over her neck he remembers why it’s been so long.

“No.” He tears his mouth from hers but it only freezes her for a second.

Her head falls on his shoulder and her body drapes over his side. He feels every scar, every burn, every inch of ruined flesh rubbing up against her perfection. She just sighs like a contented cat. Her breath on his chest sends shivers to his toes.

“I guess that means it’s not so bad fucking the freak,” he mutters.

She stiffens. Her fingers curl tight beneath his ribs. He lets himself pretend it’s because she doesn’t wanna let him go.

 


End file.
